


Hydrogen Peroxide and Gauze

by Galtori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of blood, Budding Love, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galtori/pseuds/Galtori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slight AU on ASiB, starting right when John finds Kate unconscious. Totally unbeta'd. Centered dashes means POV change, while a line skip means a time skip. Many apologies if there are any mistakes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hydrogen Peroxide and Gauze

“They came in that way.” John motioned, standing as Sherlock and Irene entered the room, gesturing towards the open bathroom window. John crossed the bedroom to Sherlock, and Sherlock used Irene's movement into the room to cover him handing the phone over to John, who quietly pocketed the device. John then turned his attention to Irene.

“She's fine, just out cold.” After gently turning Kate to her back, Irene nodded.

“Well, God knows she's used to that.” She then turned back to the boys. “There's a back door. Better check it, Mr. Holmes. That pistol may come in handy.” Sherlock stared at John for a moment before nodding.

“If there are others, I will lure them in and shout. John, use the rope to go out the way they came in and get both of you out. I'll find my own way out. Besides, best to separate these two.” He tapped his pocket meaningfully, then turned on his heel and walked out before John could say a word in protest. John sighed in resignation. Irene opened her mouth, but John stopped her.

“No, I'm not going to go chasing after him. I don't want more men coming in that way or through one of the other rooms.” She then shrugged, turning her attention back to Kate.

“Would that rope hold both of us?” Irene questioned. “I would assume those heavy, well-built men came in one after another, which may have weakened the anchoring point. I have no desire to use it and fall halfway through our descent.” Softly sighing, John went over to inspect the rope, checking that no one was watching first. Giving a few sturdy tugs, he felt confident that it would hold both of their weight.

But just as he was turning to tell Irene as much, something pushed his head into the doorframe. Hard. Dazed, he tried to push away from it as stars popped in his vision. As he recovered his senses, something sharp pierced his arm: a needle. John opened his mouth, reeling from the burn of chemicals entering his system.

“Sher-!” John began, moving determinedly towards the bedroom and raising his voice as loud as he could, but Irene's hand connected with his face, punching him hard. The additional momentum sent him crashing forwards. Thinking of the phone, John fumbled and grabbed it from his pocket. Irene's nails scratched and scrabbled painfully at the back of his hand as he pulled the phone under his body, using his weight against her.

\-------

Downstairs, Sherlock quickly checked the back door. No additional security was waiting for them, so Sherlock quickly turned back. It was a gamble, leaving John alone with Irene; Sherlock wasn't sure if she bought that he still had the phone. But John was a soldier, and given the thumping Sherlock had received not too long ago, the doctor could still handle himself. Still, Irene was crafty, and he wouldn't put it past her to -

Sherlock heard a noise as he turned around, followed by a thud. The voice was too low to be Irene's, and the lack of any noise after that confirmed his earlier hesitation: Irene had managed to surprise John. Without any delay, he dashed for the stairs.

 --------

“Give it to me. Now!” Irene demanded over John, circling while John tried to gather his strength. Whatever he was injected with was messing with his muscles, as they barely responded to his commands.

“Sher-” John tried to shout again, but after finally managing to get up on his hands and knees, his balanced pitched forward. So he had to steady himself with one arm, nearly face-planting into the wooden floor.

“This is ridiculous,” Irene hissed, moving out of his sight before returning moments later, holding a riding crop in hand.

\----------

Making his way up the stairs two and three at a time, Sherlock dashed as quietly as he could. He could hear Irene's voice, raised and upset.

“Sher-” John cried out again, and something in Sherlock's gut twisted. He'd put John in danger twice in a matter of minutes. He had worked his mind palace overtime to make sure that the combination was right, and God his stomach clenched, trusting John to duck in time as the safe door swung open. Sherlock grabbed the railing harder, using that to propel him up four stairs at a time and still not sound like an elephant or, more importantly, give his position away.

As Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, he saw Irene brandished the crop once in warning before she hit John twice across his supporting arm, causing his balance to wobble precariously again.

“Drop it,” she commanded, ending it with two lashes to his back.

“No,” he managed. She stepped towards him, giving him three lashes to the other arm. His military training took over, and he braced himself for more pain, still gripping the phone.

“I – said –” She punctuated each word with a lash to the back, followed a particularly vicious blow to the head as she circled back into the bathroom. John fell forward again, landing hard on his left shoulder as he curled the phone under his body once more. Sherlock's vision turned red in fury.

“Drop it,” Sherlock barked, and Irene's head snapped up. She instantly took two steps closer to the rope, within easy reach.

“Smart move, putting the phone on your loyal guard dog.”

“What have you done to him?” Sherlock growled.

“He'll sleep for a few hours. Don't worry; I've used it on loads of my friends,” she purred. John chose that moment to give a low groan before vomiting. “Make sure he doesn't choke on it. Makes for an unattractive corpse.” John wasn't moving. Was he unconscious? Sherlock leapt over the bed. John could choke if Sherlock didn't move him soon. As Sherlock pulled John into a sitting position, the other man collapsed against him, mumbling softly. Not unconscious then. Satisfied that John wasn't choking, Sherlock then looked back at the bathroom, unsurprised that Irene was already gone. He had his knighthood in the bag; her fate was the furthest thing from his mind. Speaking of, Sherlock reached towards John's left hand. Irene had scratched it up, several of the marks oozing blood, but his hand was still clutching the phone.

“Go ahead and hand me the phone,” Sherlock told John as he started to pull the phone from his loosening grasp. But as Sherlock gripped his wrist, John jerked awake, making several distressed noises before he pushed roughly against Sherlock, falling backwards and giving a pained groan.

“John, John, it's me. I'm trying to help you. Irene is gone, but I need to get you out of here. Let me take the phone.” Sherlock leaned forward, raising John into a sitting position again. This time, when Sherlock held John's wrist, the phone slid from his grasp. And just in time, as Sherlock heard police sirens rounding the corner. “Here, let's at least make you a touch more presentable.” Sherlock grabbed the nearest disposable fabric, Irene's duvet in this case, and used it to clean the vomit from John's face.

“Actually, let's get you into a more comfortable position while I make sure the police take as little of my time as possible.” He then used the duvet to cushion John as much as possible against the bedside table before standing. That was when a distinctly female groan reached Sherlock's ears; it seemed that Kate was finally waking. Sherlock then moved her into a sitting position against the vanity set as someone began pounding on the door. He bounded down the stairs, shouting to the police that he would get the door. As luck would have it, Greg was the one knocking.

“Good, they sent someone competent. I know this isn't your typical precinct, so you can tell Mycroft I have the phone.” Greg turned to issue an order, so Sherlock paused. When he was sure he had Greg's attention again, he continued. “I can tell you my part of the story on the car ride home and at 221b, depending on how long it takes, but I need to head back there. Two of the four witnesses are up there. There are three Americans, one of whom is dead in the sitting room there. The third witness is on the run, but you wouldn't be able to get any additional information out of her,” Sherlock rattled off. Greg quickly sent more men to the sitting room while he and Sherlock went upstairs. When they reached their destination, Sherlock crossed back over to where John was. Fortunately, he hadn't moved, but Lestrade seemed more interested in making sure that Kate was unharmed.

“I glanced at her. No lasting injuries. Your men can interrogate her at your leisure. Irene Adler won't be showing her face for quite some time, and unless she talks someone into picking her up within the next few hours, you'll get everything you need from her. However, I need to take John back to 221b.” Lestrade finally turned his attention to their injured and unconscious friend.

“Christ, what happened to him?”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock replied. “Now help me carry him to your car. I can better treat him at the flat.” Greg nodded and walked over, and together they were able to carry John to Lestrade's squad car.

Sherlock spent most of the trip over relating what had happened to Lestrade, providing enough detail to make sure that he wouldn't be bothered for the rest of the night. During most of the trip, John would mumble incoherently, with varying amounts of volume as he floated in and out of consciousness. Lestrade gave a pitying glance to Sherlock more than once, but Sherlock didn't mind. John had no idea what he was doing, and given John's symptoms, Sherlock had deduced that Irene had given him a cocktail of sedatives and psychoactive drugs. It would leave the client happily sleepy, and give Irene more than enough time to get out of a bad situation.

Once they reached 221b, Lestrade parked, and the pair began to carry John into the flat. Normally, Sherlock would have suggested that Lestrade throw John over his shoulder or use a soldier's carry. But with John so out of it and the head injury, Sherlock didn't want to risk John waking violently and hurting his head again. So Lestrade had John by the armpits while Sherlock had him by the knees. Unfortunately, about halfway up the stairs, John woke and immediately began to struggle.

“John, we're trying to help you. Calm down, and we'll set you down when we get into the sitting room,” Lestrade tried to reassure, but John continued to struggle, muttering broken phrases and looking around wildly. From what Sherlock could tell, he was having another flash back to Afghanistan. Lestrade's words wouldn't work, so Sherlock set John's legs down and leaned forward, grabbing John's face with both hands.

“Captain Watson, I need to listen to me. You've been injured, and we're trying to get you to triage. Stop struggling.” As Sherlock spoke, his gambit seemed to work: John's eyes began to focus on him, and his movements stopped. Sherlock then looked at Lestrade, who nodded and began to move John up the stairs again. Sherlock grabbed John's legs and continued to help carry John. Once they reached the living room, the three men stopped, lowering John into his armchair, despite mild protests from John.

“That will be all Lestrade,” Sherlock said, hoping his tone was dismissive enough to keep the Detective Inspector from arguing with him.

“I can stay and help you keep an eye on him,” Lestrade offered, but Sherlock waved him off.

“You have a crime scene to piece together for your men and I am more than capable of taking care of John. The most concerning part is the psychoactive drugs, and those should wear off by morning.” Sherlock bent down, making a more thorough examination of John in front of Lestrade. “Pupils are reacting well, seems like he's starting to come out of his stupor.

“If you're sure, then I'll head out. Try to get some actual sleep tonight, and let me know how John is doing tomorrow. Technically I need a statement from him as well.” With that, Sherlock heard Lestrade leave the flat, closing the door behind him. Once he was sure Lestrade was gone, Sherlock coaxed John into a sitting position and then partly carried him into the detective's bedroom. Sherlock reasoned that the bedroom was closer to the bathroom, which would leave John out of Sherlock's sight for a shorter amount of time. The bed was also far more comfortable for John than a chair. Not to mention Sherlock would also be able to rest on a different part of the bed and still know when John was moving around. It had nothing to do with a need to shelter John from any further dangers Sherlock could incur. It was not to protect John's dignity, though he knew John would be embarrassed if Mrs. Hudson saw him strung out on the injection.

Now that John was leaning against Sherlock's bed, he could grab the necessary supplies to patch the doctor up. Sherlock made sure to grab cleaning agents as well as a roll of gauze and medical tape. Fortunately, none of John's wounds required stitches, so Sherlock left those supplies in the cabinet and crossed back to the bedroom.

John seemed to be mostly lucid, following Sherlock's movements and assisting as Sherlock removed John's shirt. Most of the welts still leaked blood, but a few had begun to scab on their own. Just to make sure, Sherlock cleaned the welts and dressed them. The bandages could come off by tomorrow afternoon, but Sherlock wanted to make sure. The head wounds took more care, as Sherlock inspected the larger one, most likely from the nearby door frame given the small flecks of paint in his hair. There wasn't any wood in the wound, and it didn't require stitches, so Sherlock gave it a light dressing as well. However, all of the welts were still bright red, and when Sherlock tried to encourage John to rest, laying him on the bed, John would twist and hiss in pain.

So Sherlock then carefully arranged himself on the bed, allowing a few pillows to cushion his back against the headboard, before curling John around him. This way, John ran no risk of choking on his vomit if threw up again, and he wasn't sleeping on any of his wounds.

“Sher-” John slurred at him, and Sherlock turned his attention back to John's face.

“Yes?”

“Why'm I like this?”

“You need to rest, but you won't have any productive sleep if you lay on your injuries.”

“Mmmm. 'S nice of yuh. Comfy too. Smell nice too.” John added as he cuddled closer to Sherlock and nosed at the tall man's hair, breathing it in. Sherlock stiffened. There was no way John really meant that.

“Nah. I do. Always liked the smell. Best par' of bein' in the kitchen when you shower,” John insisted as Sherlock realized he spoke out loud.

“John, you don't know what you're saying. You need to rest. You'll be better in the morning. You probably won't remember this.”

“You dunno tha'. An' I do know. I'd of said it lon' ago, buh you're married tuh your work.” John lifted his head from Sherlock's shoulder, looking the other man in the eyes. And Sherlock couldn't read an ounce of insincerity, though he knew John would never lie about something like this. His words would always be sincere.

“John, you have been pursuing women since I have known you -” Sherlock started, but John shushed him quite loudly before overriding with his own thoughts.

“I looked at 'em 'cause no man would evuh compare tuh you. They're all ordin'ry 'cause who else 's 'strordinary like you?” John brought a clumsy hand up to touch the side of Sherlock's face, and Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe. “'s always been you. You always keep us outta the wors' uh scrapes.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected. “I placed you in danger twice today alone. You are always in danger when I am on a case. You always will be.” And John nodded.

“True. Buh we always make it out.” John's eyes were drooping, and he was starting to show several signs of fatigue.

“Either way, we can discuss this more tomorrow. Rest for now.” Seemingly satisfied, John settled back down to sleep.

An hour later, after ensuring that John was deeply asleep, Sherlock settled himself into his mind palace. True, he couldn't move quite as he would like to, but Sherlock had no desire to wake John. And he needed to think about what John had said. Did he really mean all of it? Whether he would be willing to admit it the next morning was a completely different topic.

So Sherlock settled into his memories, sifting through the time he had known John, searching for something that would affirm or deny the slurred words he had spoken earlier. The easiest phrase to affirm was John's belief in Sherlock's abilities. Time and time again, the doctor had trusted Sherlock's intuition when he ordered John around. The most John had ever done was simply ask clarifying questions. Many times, those questions were redundant, but they were never questions that doubted Sherlock's abilities. The first night, John had followed Sherlock across rooftops without major protest. There was no doubt that John trusted Sherlock with his life. But did John trust his heart to Sherlock as well?

Here, Sherlock dove through all their interactions, both public and private. Statements at The Yard and mumbled 'good morning's mingled and flashed across Sherlock's mind, and yet for all his genius, Sherlock could not make heads or tails of the army doctor's behavior. Round and round his mind wove itself, unable to reach a definitive conclusion. Eventually, sleep overpowered the detective, and night passed into morning.

 

Sherlock felt John begin to move against him, jolting him from sleep. A quick glance at John told the detective that the doctor was not under a hallucination and was not experiencing any lingering symptoms, spare his usual stiffness and some lingering drowsiness. John's face had taken an imprint of the buttoned shirt it laid against, and John attempted to scrub it as he yawned. But the doctor froze when he realized who he was pushing off of.

 _Obviously doesn't remember what he said last night,_ Sherlock thought. “I can leave the room if you wish to wake on your own,” he offered, attempting to be aloof and only vaguely interested in the answer.

“I think now would be a good time to talk actually,” the doctor replied smoothly, his face refusing to give Sherlock any hints, spare his resolution to talk.

“Very well. Would you prefer me to move?”

“No, here is fine.” John absently patted Sherlock's chest before he realized what he was doing, freezing again.

“If you wish to forget last night I will never hold it against you. You were under the effect of psychoactive drugs, and you didn't mean what you said -” Sherlock began to ramble, forcing the words out in a rush, when John placed a fingertip against his lips.

“I remember what I said, and I said it all of my own volition. I meant it.” Sherlock knew John could feel the detective's breath on his finger. Sherlock was grateful the finger wasn't on his pulse point, else John would know how his heart leapt and galloped in his ribcage, unsure if he should hope or try to wake himself from what had to be a dream. “But I understand that you're married to your work. I will always respect that boundary. You are, first and foremost, my friend. I would not harm our relationship with my feelings.” If it was possible, Sherlock felt his heart swell at John's proclamation. That he would value Sherlock, a former-junkie-turned-detective, self-proclaimed sociopath, freak, and all-around ass, was more than Sherlock could dare for. That the army doctor loved him so fully was touching beyond words.

“What I said was true,” Sherlock allowed. John closed his eyes, nodding tightly. Sherlock brought a hand to his friend's face, ensuring eye contact. “Yet you have become an indispensable part of my life and work. I realized that at the pool. I would be lost without my blogger.” Sherlock watched as hope, desperately irrational hope, claimed John Watson. “We might as well give them something to talk about.” With those words, he leaned forward and placed a careful kiss on John's forehead. John responded with a soft laugh and a kiss to Sherlock's exposed collarbone, sending a shiver down the detective's spine.

As a new thought hit Sherlock, he bounded out of the bedroom, heedless to the confused captain sitting on his bed. But as Sherlock grabbed his suit jacket from the kitchen table, he knew that the phone was already gone.

“Dammit,” he swore before his eyes caught on his coat, laying over John's chair. He grabbed at the coat, finding his phone in the wrong pocket. He'd received a text from a new number, obviously Ms. Adler's.

“You make the most adorable pout when you sleep. Thanks for keeping my phone safe. ;)” Sherlock rolled his eyes and put toast in for both of them and set the kettle to boil. By the time John walked out of the bathroom, several of his welts uncovered, Sherlock had a functional breakfast for the both of them. Sherlock grabbed the paper and sat down as he glanced again at John. The doctor was fully awake by now.

“So, what had you bounding out of my arms?”

“Realized that Irene Adler broke into the flat and took back her phone,” Sherlock admitted flatly. John's face showed both of their disappointment.

“I kept you distracted,” he quietly acknowledged.

“Which was entirely her plan. I didn't see her plan. I placed the jacket carelessly. I could have easily left it with Lestrade or my brother. That was my fault, not yours,” the detective insisted emphatically.

“Next time, don't use my blogger as your distraction. -SH” Irene's reply was fairly swift.

“Good morning Mr. Holmes. Care for dinner tonight?” John gave the phone a sideways look at the ringer.

“Is that - ” John began to ask.

“Unimportant,” Sherlock answered.

“Will most likely be occupied. -SH”

“And if I clear whatever else is on your plate?” John stopped eating again to give the phone a long, hard look before he pointedly ignored the device.

“I believe the phrase is 'You're not my cup of tea.' -SH” Sherlock smirked at John before he pressed send.

“My apologies to you Mr. Holmes, and my congratulations to whomever is the lucky diner. I do wish I were in his shoes.” Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.

“Do you mind turning that thing off? Or changing the alert?” John finally snapped, staring moodily at the phone.

“Don't try to be coy. You already know. Besides, John has better table manners than you. -SH”

“I don't mind at all. Not important anyways.” With that, Sherlock turned the phone to vibrate only and turned to his own plate of food.


End file.
